


Cakes

by officialvarrictethras



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officialvarrictethras/pseuds/officialvarrictethras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall isn't normally one for such refinement, and it's not just the delicate frilly cakes that are tempting him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cakes

The cakes are ridiculous, frilly things -- small and delicate, almost too pretty to eat, each nestled inside fluted paper cups, each more beautiful than the last. A tray full of them, a gift from some Orlesian noble, rests on the nightstand beside their goblets of wine, and one by one, they begin to disappear over the course of a few hours. Shared between them, the little morsels of delicacy and refinement are honey-sweet on the tongue, and he finds himself _enraptured_ at the sight of her cherry-red lips devouring them.

“Maker’s breath,” mutters Blackwall, as her pink tongue darts out and caresses her lips to capture the crumbs stuck there. Her gaze meets his, and she surreptitiously adjusts the coverlet to expose a little more of her nakedness to him, her brown body more curved than a mountain path. Andraste, but those freckles seem to go on forever.

“Something on your mind, my dear?” asks Rosalyn, voice sweeter than the cakes and all-too-innocent, offering him the half-eaten morsel with a little smile.

The warrior leans up eagerly to finish the tidbit of frosting and cake, and his scrutinizing gaze doesn’t miss the way her pupils blow wide and her breath hitches as his mouth closes around her thumb. Teasingly, he sucks on the digit until she bites her lower lip, and a thrill of pride surges through him. It’s a torturous game they play, this teasing dance of restraint, but one he’ll gladly spend the rest of his days playing.

“Just wondering,” replies Blackwall, once his mouth is clear of cake, and he reaches for the goblet of wine. There is a heartbeat of expectant silence as Rosalyn waits for him to continue.

When he does not, she arches a brow. “Wondering _what_?”

Blackwall’s moustache twitches -- a hint at the smile underneath -- and he takes a long sip from the goblet before setting it back down. Pushing himself up onto all fours, the warrior crawls towards her, his mouth seeking hers, their bodies overlapping. They do not touch skin to skin, not yet, _not yet_. The air surrounding them practically crackles with electric tension. Mouth a hairsbreadth from hers, he hesitates, teasing her with his proximity. She wriggles, all coy smiles and innocent batting eyelashes.

“Wondering if you taste as sweet as you look,” he rumbles huskily, eyes lidded, hands twitching in their desire to touch her. His bare thigh slides between hers, just shy of that sweet place, and a whine escapes her.

“Only one way to find out, you know,” replies the Inquisitor, but there’s a strained edge to her voice, and Blackwall chuckles. Rosie’s fingertips meander feather-light down his stomach, tracing the trail of hairs, and he can’t suppress his pleasurable shiver.  Her very scent _tortures_ him -- sweet and fragrant, like roses. His restraint is unraveling fast, and he knows it.

Their lips meet at long last, crashing together hungrily while their hands begin mapping the other in the low, flickering light. A subtle hint of sugar, saccharine and sublime, coats their mouths and tongues, and they eagerly delve further to taste more. Suddenly her hands are burying themselves in his hair, her fingers tangling in the salt-and-pepper curls, drawing him even closer. His thigh slides further north between her legs, connecting at last with her damp heat, and she writhes against him.

“Fuck,” mutters the old warrior, with their lips part for breath, but he needs more, he _craves_ more -- she has stolen the wind from his lungs and he wants it back. Hungrily, desperately, their lips meet again, and she arches, riding his thigh until she moans against his mouth. Blackwall’s free hand seizes her hips, his fingertips digging with bruising firmness into the curve of her thigh as she moves. Maddened by the sight of her, by the sounds of her gasping moans, by the feel of her grinding her slick heat against his upper thigh, the warrior’s restraint frays further, but he will not lose this game.

When she is on the cusp, when her fingernails dig red grooves into the muscles of his back, Blackwall moves his thigh away, chuckling in response to her frustrated squeal. If the flash of her eyes is any indication, she’s _furious_. In an attempt to placate her, her talented lover brings his mouth to her neck, tasting her sun-kissed, freckle-dusted skin as he moves steadily downward. His lips forge rambling trails, over the swell of her breast and into the valley between, curving around to her navel and across her hip.

Her languid body tightens with a hitched breath when he reaches the curl-covered mound between her legs and his fingers part her. Eyes trained on her face, he leans in, mouth overlapping her, tasting her fully, and her fingers are in his hair again. She curls them at the back of his head as he wrenches a shaky, pleasured cry from her throat with every movement of his lips and tongue.

Watching her come undone by his touch alone is enough to spiral him into a mindless frenzy, but he clings onto what restraint he has left.

Her fingernails scraping against his scalp is a wondrous sensation, causing his skin to erupt in wave after wave of gooseflesh as his mouth laps eagerly at her slickness. She gives a shuddering, breathy moan, and Blackwall groans in response, his noises of pleasure reverberating into her overheated flesh, sparking ecstasy deep in both their bellies.

“Please!” gasps Rosie at last, her hips squirming against his mouth. “Please no more teasing,” she adds with a breathy whimper that practically sets him aflame at the sound.

Blackwall gives a throaty chuckle against her heated flesh, the delicious vibrations sending her into a writhing frenzy, her moans reverberating off the vaulted ceilings of her chambers. Her fingers curl in his hair, nails scraping softly against his scalp, and the old warrior slowly sinks a finger inside her slickness. He curls them, just so, and she trembles like a leaf in a tornado. Another finger joins the first and she gasps sharply.

This is unexpected for Rosalyn. She arches off the mattress, cries out his name, as his fingers move in tandem with the exquisite movements of his lips and tongue, and she shatters apart with a colorful curse, thighs tensing around his head, hips bucking slightly against his mouth. With gentle, light movements, he coaxes her back down from that sweet high place, and crawls slowly up the length of her body until their mouths are within inches of each other.

“I don’t know if I… should ask how you got so well at that,” sighs Rosalyn, emerald eyes hooded and glassy, and her lover affords her a soft chuckle.

“I wasn’t always a loner, you know,” murmurs the warrior with a smile, his lips brushing softly against her neck. One of his callused hands glides slowly down the length of her torso, hooking behind her knee and drawing her soft thigh around his hip. The head of his stiff cock slips against her slick folds and she inhales sharply through her teeth. Blackwall’s fingers dig into her hip. Just a little longer, have patience… But Andraste, is she tempting. Like the frilly little cakes, a delicate morsel just waiting to be devoured is so eagerly spread before him, but he must wait.

“Mmm, Blackwall…” whispers the dwarf, arching as he grinds himself teasingly against her.

“What can I do for you, love?” asks Blackwall, all-too-innocently, and she groans in frustration when his mouth sucks ravenously on her throat.

“You know very well,” replies the Inquisitor through gritted teeth. “Now stop your talking,” she says, fingers fisting in his hair and yanking his mouth down to hers. The taste of the cakes is dwindling now, replaced only with a flavor all her own, but no less sweet. The sound of her gasps, the lingering heat of her skin against his, the taste of her lips and tongue -- it is maddening. She pleads, whispering for release, and he is all too eager to obey. Resolve at last broken, he gives in.

With a groan, he slides into her to the hilt and revels for a brief heartbeat the feel of her shuddering around him, before setting a lazy, torturous pace that leaves her gasping. They both know it will not last long, not with everything so sensitive, nerves set aflame at every little movement. He is on _fire_ , an unquenchable thirst deep in his belly spurring his lazy thrusts onwards, head pressed against her shoulder as he brings them both to the very cusp.

When she arrives once again at the precipice, he is there with her, groaning her name like it is somewhere between a curse and a prayer, and maybe it is. When the last vestiges of ecstasy leave them at last, stealing their breath and leaving them wrung out and sated, he sags a little atop her, boneless and exhausted from their passions. Propping himself on his forearms so as not to crush her, the warrior smiles at his lover, his Rosie, taking in the glow of her cheeks, the fine sheen of sweat coating her face… Maker’s breath, what a woman.

Breathing heavily, moustache ruffling with each exhale, he rolls to the side, and draws her wordlessly into his embrace, nose buried against her throat. His arms tighten just a little around her waist, drawing her even closer to his chest. Somehow -- though he isn’t quite sure how -- he needs to be _closer_. As if her goodness will absolve him, make him clean enough to be worthy of her...

He feels as if something should be said. Her fingers are toying with the ends of his beard, and it feels _so good..._ “I like the cakes,” he says sheepishly to her collarbone, and she exhales the barest hint of a laugh -- more sigh than anything else.

“As do I, love,” she says quietly, and plants a sweet kiss on his forehead.

It will do, for now.


End file.
